


The Faire

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [12]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A faire, a contest, and too much drinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Faire

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Live By The Sword 'verse, posted in the order they were written. This chapter is set some time after **Boulevard of Broken Dreams**. Arthur, a cop, and Lancelot, the son of a made man.
> 
> Lyrics courtesy of Green Day; dialogue from **The Crow** by James O'Barr.

_So strike the fucking match to light this fuse_

 

The images on the ridiculously large plasma tv held him riveted; the movie was old, older than he had been alive, but it still had the same effect it always did.

 

_People once believed that when a person died, a crow carried their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can’t rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to make the wrong things right._

 

A warm hand on Arthur’s shoulder made him jump.

 

“If you don’t turn that thing off, you will have a permanent green glow on your face.”

 

“Shut up,” Arthur replied, and kept watching. At 3 am, he could watch any movie he damn well pleased.

 

“Arthur. You own this film. Why are you watching it on television – and more to the point – why are you up? It’s late.” Lancelot jumped nimbly over the back of the couch, his legs folding underneath him to sit next to Arthur. The only lights in the house that were on came from the tv, which took up half the wall in front of them. Arthur had fought with Lance over getting the thing, but in the end he had given in and bought it – if Arthur ‘…can have your fancy sound system, then we can get an equally good television.’ 

 

Truth be told, now that he had it, he wouldn’t do with anything smaller. Spoiled fucking rotten, he was. Thanks to someone who was currently fidgeting with his pajama pants and beginning to annoy Arthur. More so than normal, anyway. Arthur gave in and turned the thing off. He faced the other man, having to blink a few times and wait for his eyes to adjust to just the light from the open curtains.

 

“You have my attention now – what is it?”

 

Lancelot looked a bit sheepish, then shrugged quickly. “I was cold. Didn’t know where you were. So I came to find you – and find you watching depressing films yet again. Sometimes it does help to watch something cheerful, you know. Especially when you can’t sleep.”

 

“How would you know?” Arthur snapped. “You’ve never had insomnia in your life.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. It’s the first thing that was on when I turned the tv on. Happy?”

 

“No,” Lance shot back, his shoulders hunching. “I’m not happy when you’re not sleeping, Arthur. Number one, you’re not with me, and number two, you’re crabby and you get sick easily. And number three,” Arthur tried not to groan, “you can’t do your job when you’re not rested.”

 

He had a point there. 

 

Arthur had actually developed the insomnia when Lancelot had started his academy training. He hadn’t told the other man; he didn’t want to create more tension between them. Things had been good; almost too good for a while. He had absolutely no intention of screwing things up…he wasn’t sure if he could take any more problems between them. Nothing had ever been easy for the two men – but Arthur was determined this time to at least try. Even if it meant lying to Lancelot. He was determined. Yes.

 

Big puppy eyes be damned.

 

Warm palms on his thighs. “You listening to me, Castus?”

 

Arthur shook his head and focused. “Yes. Sorry, what were you saying?” Lancelot barked a laugh, and slapped a hand down on Arthur’s leg. It made a smacking sound that reminded Arthur of the new shot they had been testing at the range – then he realized he was drifting again. He smiled, a self depreciating thing he’d gotten too good at.

 

“Sorry. I know – I’m not resting. I’m just … I have a lot on my mind.”

 

Lancelot laughed again; this time, a hint of bitterness crept into it. “You say that like it’s any different from any other time, Arthur. How long have I known you? How long have you been the way you are? And that was rhetorical, if you can’t figure that out,” he finished, shaking his head, and moving back on the couch. Arthur intensely and suddenly missed the touch on his legs, and slid over, following the other man.

 

“…and now you think you’re going to make it up to me by being touchy feely,” Lancelot groused. Arthur noticed he didn’t move out of range of his fingers, though, and was loosening his crossed arms. Lancelot pinched his mouth together, but allowed Arthur to pet him with hands and soft lips until he sighed and gave in, settling into the other man’s chest against the back of the couch.

 

“Arthur, for fuck’s sake. I just want you to be all right with yourself and what’s happening in our lives, yes? Do you understand that?” Lancelot murmured quietly against Arthur’s neck. Arthur nodded; he did understand. Too well – and that was the problem. The harder he worked at being ‘all right’ the worse it made him feel. And if Lancelot knew he wasn’t sleeping well because of worry about the other man – Arthur shuddered to think of the screaming.

 

“Listen. I have an idea. It may be a stupid one – but hear me out, okay?”

 

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. Statements like that generally didn’t end up boding so well for him.

 

“…and?”

 

“So. You know about the Renaissance fair in San Bernadino – Arthur? Where are you going – oh, come on. Just hear me out!”

 

Arthur yanked the fridge open, jerked out coffee, and banged the supplies for making french roast out on the counter. He winced when Lancelot snapped the lights on in the room, flooding the area with what was supposed to be comforting ‘real’ soft light.

 

“You know what? You may be right.”

 

Lancelot opened and shut his mouth, then leant on the counter. “About….?”

 

“That is a stupid idea.”

 

Arthur poured water into the coffeepot, set up the grounds, and watched, huffing to himself as Lancelot flapped his lips some more. “Arthur – fuck you. I’m just trying to think of ways to distract you! It might actually be fun – this time. You’re not a kid anymore, and I’ll keep an eye on you. I won’t let any wenches have their way with you, I promise.”

 

Arthur growled, and faced Lancelot, who was grinning from ear to ear, his hand over his heart. Arthur’s temper flared, and he shoved the other man into the counter, who began to howl with laughter. Arthur’s hands braced themselves on either side of Lancelot. “You think it’s funny? I may be scarred for life from that…that last time. And you have the nerve to suggest going to a damn fair might get me to relax? Fuck. You.”

 

Lancelot couldn’t stop the laughter that poured from his mouth; the image of teenage Arthur, being surrounded by ‘wenches’ and kissed until he was covered with teeth marks and lipstick was too much to bear. “I’m – I’m sorry, Arthur,” he managed, sobbing with mirth, “but that was – that was quite literally the funniest thing I had seen up until that point. I didn’t think it possible for a human being to turn that color of red, especially under all that lipstick.”

 

Arthur snarled again; his face was a contrast of embarassment, remorse and desire for revenge at Lancelot – for even bringing up the dreaded memory in the first place. “Lance, you asshole. I was 15. That age isn’t exactly easy. And to be in public – with the … reaction I had…God.” The other man actually giggled. “Oh, come on, Arthur. You have to admit, it was damn funny. Poor thing – Gwen and I were certain that you would never speak to us again.”

 

“I shouldn’t have,” Arthur muttered. “I still have dreams about that.” Lancelot smiled again, and cupped Arthur’s face. “…and yet you sleep with me?” Arthur rolled his eyes, and moved back to the coffee pot, where his drug of choice was ready. “Only under much duress,” he answered flippantly.

 

“Oh, funny,” Lancelot answered, following Arthur, his arms going ‘round the other man, his head resting between Arthur’s shoulder blades. “You’re lucky I deign to be seen with you.”

 

Arthur smirked and poured two cups of coffee. He added milk to his, and milk and sugar to Lance’s – a lot. He knew better than to make it too bitter.

 

“I don’t know if I’d call it luck, my friend,” he answered innocently, which resulted in a bite to his shoulder blade. He hissed and laughed, turning to face Lancelot, who kept his arms around Arthur’s middle. Arthur took a sip of coffee, and gazed at the annoying and addicting man currently wrapped around his torso. Their history was so long and convoluted; if Arthur had a lifetime to write it, he wouldn’t even hazard a guess as to where to start.

 

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” he commented. The corner of Lance’s mouth curled. “You’re warm enough for me.” Arthur groaned and laughed at that. “Been reading Gwen’s bodice rippers again?”

 

Lancelot’s eyebrow rose. “Not since high school. And you know that, so don’t insult me. Those things are crap. Set an impossible standard for men to live up to.”

 

“Not like you don’t try,” Arthur replied, then drank more of his caffeine. Lancelot smiled, a quick flash of white, then removed the mug from Arthur’s hands. He leant in, and licked a few drops of coffee off Arthur’s lips, then kissed him slowly.

 

“Mmmm. You taste good. Expensive.”

 

Arthur allowed another smile to cross his face, and lay his arms around Lancelot’s neck. “You piss me off so easily,” he said softly, his tone light. “I’m not entirely sure why I still put up with you.”

 

“Because I’m a good lay?” the younger man replied innocently. Arthur rolled his eyes yes again, but didn’t disagree. 

 

“So will you go?”

 

“Hmmm?” Arthur pulled back slightly from Lancelot, his eyes muzzy with sleeplessness and desire fanned quickly from embers to flame. He leant forward and kissed the other man again, teasing slowly, plying Lancelot’s mouth with gentle pressure and nips at the corners. His reward was a pinch to the arm. “Arthur, stop for once and answer me. Will you go with me to the damn fair or not?”

 

Arthur sighed, and hung his head. He couldn’t say no now. Lancelot was wrapped around him, body mashed to his, foot rubbing languidly up and down Arthur’s calf. “Oh, for the love of – all right. But no funny business, or I swear you won’t be sitting down for a week.”

 

A perfect eyebrow arched nearly to Lancelot’s hairline. “Promise?”

 

_He’s not listening to a word now he’s in his own world and he’s daydreaming he’d rather be doing something else now like cigarettes and coffee_

 

*

 

As Lancelot’s Thunderbird neared the fair parking, Arthur’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat. It was a warm day; October in California was usually quite nice, but San Bernadino county was far enough inland to still be damp and hot this time of year. The breeze was blowing in from the Pacific, though, so it could have been worse. They parked, and made their way among throngs of families, teenagers, reinactors, wenches, and pretty much a smorgasborg representation of the denizens of SoCal. Arthur tugged at his collar; he was glad he had worn the loose fitting linen shirt with his jeans. Lancelot was as smooth and slick as usual, his jeans and dark green tshirt looking like they were made for him. Arthur had to shake his head when the younger man leant in to the ticket booth as Arthur stood behind him and waited.

 

“See something you like?”

 

“What? You ready?” Arthur stumbled over his words and tore his gaze from Lancelot’s ass, meeting the amused brown eyes that were staring at him. “For ages. Let’s go start having fun.”

 

*

 

_Give me a long kiss goodnight and everything will be all right_

 

Half way through the day, Arthur had to admit the fair wasn’t as bad as he had imagined or feared it would be.

 

They were sitting at the large ampitheatre that housed all the large events, waiting for the reinactors to joust. The place was layed out Roman style; the seats bleachers that were built into the side of a hill, the riding ring itself set up around a small but nicely kept lake. At the top of the hill the theatre was surrounded by columns that were topped with images of gods and goddesses, all holding the symbols of their offices.

 

It was rather beautiful. 

 

Arthur took another sip from his beer, and gazed around at the cacophany of craziness that made up the fair. Lancelot hit his leg with his knee, and Arthur turned eyes to him. “Look at the knights,” he said, using his chin to point toward the field, “one has to wonder how these fights would have turned out had they been wearing kevlar.” The four men coming out onto the field were bedecked in glittering armour, swords, shields, and lances. Each man had a squire who followed behind, carrying the flag of their knight and any extras the knights couldn’t manage.

 

“I think they would have been quite boring – each man would have been evenly matched with the same type of protection,” Arthur mused. “This way, the fight is dependant upon the armourer’s skill, the knight’s ability with a weapon, and the steadiness of the horse under him.” Lancelot stared at Arthur askance, then laughed brightly. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?” he asked. “Admit it.” Arthur grinned sheepishly into his beer, then raised his eyes again. “The really excellent beer aside, I am, yes. Thank you.”

 

“What for? As I recall you didn’t really want to come,” Lancelot teased, still smiling.

 

“For putting up with me.”

 

Lancelot shrugged, then took Arthur’s beer out of his hands, drinking some it. “Maybe it’s you that’s the good lay. And share some of that. You’ve had a lot.”

 

Arthur’s eyes popped wide, then a laugh gushed out of him. He snatched his drink back. “Good point.” Lancelot just smirked back, gradually allowing the sarcastic expression to turn real. “You need to laugh more often, Arthur.” That comment made Arthur’s cheeks flame slightly, and he covered it up by hiding his face in his mug, drinking more of the (really excellent) ale.

 

“Here, now,” Lancelot said, pointing again toward the field, “they’re going to start.”

 

*

 

Arthur’s shirt was sticking to his back, and his jeans were making him sweat. He would give anything to cool off – and his eyes caught sight of something that made him do a double take.

 

“Wait, Lance,” he said, catching the other man’s arm. 

 

“I’m hungry, Arthur,” Lancelot replied, then followed Arthur’s eyes. He started, then guffawed. “Surely you can’t be serious.”

 

“Come on,” Arthur actually begged. “Let’s do it.”

 

“Oh, lord, Arthur, are you sure? I have a feeling when you’re a bit more sober you may regret this,” Lancelot answered, eyeing the booth Arthur was staring at with trepidation. Not like either of them couldn’t fight, but…

 

“Arthur! Wait!” Lancelot sighed in exasperation and chased after the other man, who was making a bee line toward the fencing booth.

 

_Holding on my heart like a handgrenade_

 

Arthur paid for both of their entrance fees, and he and Lancelot entered the ring, sizing up the swords available to them. Granted, they were blunt tipped foils, but both men eventually found one that suited their liking, and squared off. “Gentlemen,” the man keeping the booth interrupted, approaching them. “You should put on the protective gear … oh, I’m sorry, Captain,” he finished, moving out of the way at the sight of the badge Arthur flashed at him.

 

“Pulling rank on civilians, Castus?” Lancelot laughed, and flipped his foil around, testing the weight. He whirled it in an arc, smiling broadly.

 

“Only when it means I have extra time to kick your rather ample ass,” Arthur replied, swinging his own foil about, liking the heft of the thing. It had been Lancelot’s fault that Arthur had learned to fence in the first place; the younger man’s interest in ancient weaponery had expanded greatly when he had joined the academy. Arthur at first had trained with him just to spend time with him, but as the studying had gone on, Arthur found he enjoyed the feel of a blade in his hand. So he and Lancelot had kept it up.

 

“Did you actually just say I have a big – oh, that’s it, Arthur. You will be sorry you ever dragged me in here.”

 

“Drag? I didn't drag you. You followed me,” Arthur taunted, his blood flowing freely in his veins, his mood open and happy for once. He saluted Lance, and they lunged at one another.

 

*

 

By the time they were done, they had a crowd around the ring, who applauded them when they both sat breathlessly, their foils hitting the ground with a light thunk. Arthur blushed, hiding it by wiping his face with his shirt, and Lancelot merely smiled and excuted a small bow toward the group of people watching them. As they got up and made to move out of the area, Lancelot had to laugh as he overheard a passerby say something along the lines of “….that was fake. They were too good – it had to be choreographed.”

 

“A tie. How boring.”

 

Arthur’s eyebrow rose. “After four matches, you’d think one of us would have been able to beat the other more than equal times. I think we might need to find new sparring partners.” He turned to walk sideways, in order to see the other man, and was suddenly overtaken by a wave of dizzyness.

 

“Arthur? You okay? You’re green,” Lancelot asked, concern in his tone. He put his hand on Arthur’s arm, then felt his forehead. “You’re kind of clammy,” he added.

 

“I think I might have had too much ale,” Arthur said in a quiet voice. He swallowed heavily, his stomach finding this the perfect moment to rebel. Perhaps it was the jouncing up and down he had given it while fencing with Lance.

 

“Oh, god,” he groaned, “where’s the bathroom?”

 

*

 

Lancelot tried not to laugh at Arthur; he did his best, only smirking once or twice. He hid it behind his hand.

 

Arthur lay on a stone bench in the Robin Hood portion of the fair; his head in Lance’s lap, his eyes closed tightly, his hand covering his face. It being close to the end of the day, the fair was slowly emptying out, and they had the area mostly to themselves. Twilight was coming on; Lancelot thought it was a perfect ending to a most interesting day. His hand rested soothingly in Arthur’s hair; he ran it through the strands occasionally. He knew the other man liked that – and figured he should do something to make him feel a little better. Getting sick in a public restroom was not the funnest of activities.

 

“Remind me again why I said I would come to this with you,” Arthur announced after a period of a half hour of silence broken only by his pitiful, quiet groaning.

 

“Because,” Lancelot replied calmly, “you love me and you’ll do what I suggest.”

 

“No, that’s not the reason,” Arthur said, his hand coming down from his face. “I think the reason is because I’m too soft and you never back down.”

 

Lancelot laughed, which shook his legs and Arthur, who clutched at his stomach and made a face. The younger man stilled, a contrite smile on his face. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he said, still running his fingers around the strands of Arthur’s hair. “We should have eaten something. And I know you don’t drink – in quantities like that, at any rate.”

 

“Was trying to relax,” Arthur mumbled, his eyes shutting again. He cracked one open to look at Lancelot. “…and I do love you.” Lance's mouth curled, and he planted a brief kiss on Arthur’s sweaty forehead. “I know. Now rest up so we can walk the four hundred blocks to the car. We’re at the furthest point in the fair.”

 

No other comment came from Arthur save another sad little moan.

 

*

 

_in the darkest night if my memory serves me right I’ll never turn back time_

 

The wind in Arthur’s face felt good to him; he was gradually feeling better, the throbbing from his gut and his head slowly fading to just an annoying niggle in the background. Lancelot took pity on him and drove like a normal human for once, instead of a contestant in the Indy 500. Damn. He didn’t drink like that. He didn’t act out like that in public; to have actually put on a show like they had? God. He shut his eyes in misery at the memory. He was a private man, and he didn’t respect many people who drew attention to themselves just because they could.

 

And yet he had gone and done just that.

 

“Ugh,” he sighed, and lay his head on his arm, allowing the air from the open top of the car to blow away the embarassment and stink of vomit.

 

“What?” Lancelot shouted over the road noise. “You say something, Arthur?”

 

“No,” he answered, “let’s just get home.”

 

*

 

Lancelot helped him up the steps to his loft, unlocking the door with his own key, and plopped Arthur down on the couch. “I’m going to run the shower,” he told Arthur, “I think it might make you feel better.” He bustled off without waiting for an answer, and Arthur just nodded to an empty room, falling back onto the couch, his head resting on the fabric covered back. Soon enough he heard the water from the bathroom, and managed to stagger to the large room.

 

The loft wasn’t big, but the bathroom was. His one concession to comfort, not counting the tv and sound system, which he remembered with chagrin, then forgot as he slid out of his jeans and sticky linen shirt. Standing in boxers and tank, he sighed, and waited til Lancelot finished doing whatever he was doing in the shower.

 

_It seems like forever ago the regrets are useless, in my mind_

 

What were they doing? Did Arthur think this would actually work? Did Lancelot think he could escape his family and his past by just changing his job? Did he think being with Arthur like this was the best thing for either of them?

 

“Uh oh,” Lancelot said, the sound rumbling ‘round the room like tiny thunder. “You’re thinking again. Don’t.”

 

“Can’t help it, sometimes,” he answered truthfully. He was too tired and sick to lie to the other man. He tore his tank over his head, letting it land where it would, and his boxers followed suit.

 

Thank the gods he had had the sense to be vain enough to get a big shower, complete with wooden seat. He had been given the idea by Guinevere, actually, who constantly delighted in describing her family’s house in Monterey. He knew his shower was half the size of the one she talked about, but he was happy with it nonetheless…aside from the fact it made him feel slightly narcissistic every time he realized he was enjoying it.

 

He sat on the bench, allowing hot water to sluice over his skin, his eyes shut, breathing the steam.

 

A few moments of relative peace, then the door slid open, and familiar hands began to rub at the knots in his shoulders. Instead of fighting it, he just made a helpless sound, and relaxed into it. Lancelot’s hands worked miracles on Arthur’s back, and he smiled to himself as the other man worked his way down to the large muscles at the base of Arthur’s spine. His soapy hands slid over Arthur’s back like a dream, and Arthur leant forward, his head resting on his arms.

 

“Need I say you should rest more?” came the soft voice. “I don’t want to see you forcing yourself into an early grave, Arthur.”

 

_but there’s nothing wrong with me this is how I’m supposed to be in the land of make believe_

 

“Won’t,” Arthur mumbled back, his voice muffled by his arms.

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Lancelot said, moving around to face Arthur, sitting with him on the bench, the steam making his hair whirl in crazy kinks that Arthur wanted to touch, which he did.

 

“Stop trying to distract me,” the other man said, pushing Arthur’s hand out of the way. “You’re going to have an ulcer by the time you’re 35 if you don’t watch it, Arthur. I’m only concerned for your well being, you know that.”

 

Arthur sighed, and looked up at last. Lancelot was gazing at him, his eyes bright and intense, his expression serious. Arthur shook his head; he figured he’d have to listen now…and it wasn’t often the younger man was this dead set on ‘taking care’ of him. “What’s brought this on?” he replied, his hand moving to rest on Lancelot’s thigh, which was slick with moisture from the shower.

 

“Nothing. I just – damn it. I just don’t like seeing you ill. It makes me worry.”

 

Arthur smiled, and rubbed his hand on the other man’s skin. “I just drank too much, Lance. It’ll pass. It’s nothing to worry about.”

 

Lancelot’s lip slipped between his teeth, and his gaze dropped.

 

“I don’t want you to leave me,” he whispered. Arthur could barely hear it over the spray of the water. “What?” he answered incredulously. “Why would you think I would?”

 

“It’s not as if we have the easiest jobs, Arthur,” Lancelot said, still not looking at Arthur. “And besides…I…just don’t leave me. Don’t.”

 

Arthur wasn’t sure what had made the other man so distraught, and he was horrified to find himself strangely proud that he, Arthur Castus, had someone that would say that to him. Someone loved him that much. And God, but it was awful that he liked it. He was a horrid person. And no amount of repenting would fix it.

 

He stared at Lancelot – and suddenly the idea that perhaps comforting the younger man might make his previous thoughts sound a little less – disgusting – gave him the push he needed to forget himself and his aching head. Not like he needed any excuse to touch Lancelot. Deep in his mind, in the primal, red, bloody beating part of his soul, he knew without a doubt he couldn’t live without the other man. He worshiped him. He would take anything for Lancelot – and gladly. It was frightening to him just how addicted he was to the man in front of him.

 

Arthur reached for Lancelot’s hand, twining their fingers. “Look at me,” he commanded quietly. The other man obeyed. “I won’t leave you. Not as long as you need me. Not as long as you want me with you. Never doubt that. Not even death can separate us.” He realized the gravity of those words, and had to suppress a little shiver. They were the truest things he had ever said to anyone.

 

_Thought I ran into you down on the street_

_Then it turned out to only be a dream_

 

“That’s a serious pledge, Arthur,” Lancelot laughed slightly, but Arthur noted the tears tracking their way slowly down his face. He raised his hand, and wiped them away gently with his thumb. “I’ll have to haunt you if you ever back out on it,” Lancelot continued.

 

“You won’t have to,” Arthur answered, a tiny smile on his own face. He grimaced then, his still weak stomach deciding to twist again in that moment. “Don’t think now is the time for the rest of this conversation,” he said apologetically. “I think my body may be turning on me.” He was secretly glad to have an excuse; his feelings were becoming too intense, too much for him to clearly voice what he meant. Lancelot would have to accept the few words Arthur could give.

 

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” the other man said, “I forgot.” He got off the bench, and swung Arthur’s legs around so they were resting on the tile floor, his back against the stone wall, the water rushing past his head, providing steam and enough spray for comfort.

 

“Hand me the soap,” Lancelot smirked, “I’m not quite done yet.”

 

*

 

The next night, as Arthur was unlocking the door, a lean and sweaty form knocked him into the wood from behind. His hand scrabbled for his gun, then froze as he recognized the smell and feel of the man molesting him through his clothing.

 

“Don’t fucking do that,” he yelled as they entered the loft; Arthur throwing down his briefcase, Lancelot dancing around him like an excited puppy. “I almost shot you! And how the fuck did you get that?” Arthur added, touching the purpling bruise on Lancelot’s cheekbone. God, but he was tired. Endless day with endless meetings, topped off by paperwork. And he was hungover. Great.

 

“I’m the first person this decade at the Academy to have a weapons specialist permit that includes swords and guns,” Lancelot practically sang, his face splitting with a huge grin that allowed Arthur to see almost all of his teeth.

 

“Congrat-“ Arthur started, but Lancelot was already dashing off to the phone. “I have to call Gwen. She won’t believe me.”

 

Arthur moved slowly to the kitchen, the excited rise and fall of Lancelot’s voice reaching him as he went through the motions of taking his vitamins and finding something to eat.

 

He couldn’t fault the other man; it was a huge accomplishment, and he hadn’t spoken to his sister in a few weeks, if Arthur’s memory was working correctly.

 

He sat at the table, the small omelette and sausage he had quickly made tasting bland and rubbery. He pushed the plate away, and began to read the paper. Having to be at work so early in the morning, he had to get his news at night. A few minutes later, Lancelot sat next to Arthur at the table, a beer bottle in his hand. Arthur didn’t say anything, merely reading the paper, looking up only when a strange hitching sound came from the other man.

 

“What – Lance?”

 

Lancelot’s face was closed in, his cheeks splotches of red in a sea of white skin. His hands were trembling around the bottle, the ring he wore clinking against the glass. A few fat tears spilled from his eyes before Lancelot could stop them. He swiped angrily at his face, letting go of the beer. “Fuck. That fucking bitch,” he hissed, and Arthur placed a hand on his arm. 

 

“What is it?” he repeated quietly. He hadn’t seen Lancelot this angry in as long as he could remember.

 

“She told me that I had abandoned the family, and that she was taking on the role that I should have been there to fill,” Lancelot answered, his voice a hot knife that sliced through the air, and landed straight in Arthur’s chest. His heart squeezed, his eyes closing briefly.

 

Damn that girl. And damn the fucking Benoits for doing this to their children.

 

He stood, his chair making a scraping sound, and knelt in front of Lancelot, the other man not looking at him, his eyes brimming, his knuckles white. He placed his hands on Lancelot’s thighs, and just stayed there, not saying anything, not moving. 

 

At last a short sob broke from the younger man, and he practically fell onto Arthur, his face burying itself in Arthur’s neck. Arthur’s arms went around him, his hands petting and soothing against Lancelot’s back, murmuring nonsense things into his ear.

 

Neither spoke, but after a while, Lancelot allowed Arthur to walk him upstairs to the bedroom. They kicked of their shoes, and lay on the bed on top of the sheets, Arthur cradling the other man against him. After the sobbing had ceased, and right as they were both about to drift off, Arthur kissed Lancelot’s forehead, then his closed eyes, his cheeks, and lastly his lips.

 

“I love you,” was all he said, quietly and with conviction.

 

They slept there, wrapped around each other, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only noise in the loft.

 

*

 

When Arthur arrived home the next day, the loft was silent, but when he went to the kitchen to eat, he found a note, and a small wrapped package.

 

_Forgot to give this to you yesterday._

_Don’t worry about me – I’ll see you tomorrow._

_Things will be all right, Arthur._

_Love._

_L._

 

Arthur unwrapped the gift, and held it up so he could see it better in the light.

 

A great laugh burst out of him, and he began to search immediately for a nail and the hammer. He hung the thing in the entry hall, where everyone could be sure to see it. Going to sleep that night, he couldn’t help but smile, and ruminate on the strange little happinesses that popped up when one least expected them. 

 

The light from the porch shone on the framed scroll Arthur had hung on the wall, the only light in the dark loft.

 

_Be it known that on this day, Arthur Castus has proved his mettle in the arena of combat and is hereby given the rank of Knight by King Henry VIII, lord of this Faire and King of the realm._

 

The thing was surrounded by a celtic knotwork border, with pictures of horses and knights fighting around the rim. It was the cheesiest and best gift he had ever received. 

Arthur figured he might be okay with going to the fair next year.

As long as they could avoid the fencing arena, and the ale.

 

_This is the dawning of the rest of our lives_


End file.
